


Siren Song

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Drama, Gen, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: When Enterprise discovers an idyllic, now uninhabited new world, it's an ideal opportunity to combine exploring and relaxing. But the planet is not quite as idyllic as it appears.
Comments: 49
Kudos: 33
Collections: Reed's Armory Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoaringMice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoaringMice/gifts).



> Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.

* * *

Shore leave.

And unsurprisingly, ‘shore leave’ is pretty literal on this planet composed largely of broken, isolated pockets of land lost in the ocean that covers something slightly more than 98% of its surface; land that still supports life – there are flora and fauna that survive on the largest ones, some in great profusion – but no civilisation.

There were people here once. Scans from space show the unmistakable traces of cities in the huge, shallow lagoons of sparkling blue water. But whoever they were, they’re long gone, and there’s no suggestion that they were even close to warp capability. Even the two moons that circle it show no sign of ever being visited.

It’s surprising that _none_ of its inhabitants have survived. One or two of the biggest land masses are large enough to support a modest population, even if the life style would have to have been primitive. Maybe they did for a while, and something happened; disease, famine, civil war, even – eventually – the inevitable consequences of a limited gene pool. Perhaps previous visitors from space had found the place, visitors with far less benevolent intentions, who’d scooped up the inhabitants and carried them off to some fate unknown. Whatever it was, it had happened long, long ago. Here and there the ship’s scanners reveal buildings buried in the green pockets of life, but they’re ruined and deserted. Nothing moves there bigger than the lemur-like creatures that have colonized the place.

The ship’s scientists are intrigued of course. The ‘exo-’ variants of all the branches the ship possesses assemble their paraphernalia, eagerly awaiting the all-clear to visit. On the Bridge T’Pol completes the careful analysis of the planet’s atmosphere and weather conditions and the scans of the area where the proposed landing will take place. An earlier failure to take appropriate precautions beforehand very nearly had tragic consequences, and she approves the fact that the captain has learned from that near-tragedy. Not enough, perhaps, to adopt a sensibly Vulcan habit of simply examining a new world from orbit without feeling the need for any closer investigation, but Humans are a young and impulsive species and she cannot reasonably expect them to grow up all at once.

Still, as a scientist herself, she is perfectly willing to take part in the studies that a prolonged visit will allow. One of the exobotany team is currently injured and laid up in her quarters with strict orders to rest, and T’Pol has no objection to standing in for the invalid, collecting the samples that Crewman Doyle can examine later and at leisure with no ill effects to her recovery. 

“The evidence suggests that when the world was inhabited, the ocean levels were significantly lower,” she explains next morning, standing at the Situation Table at the rear of the Bridge where the captain and her fellow officers have assembled to hear her findings. “At a guess, the water historically held in the polar ice caps melted, raising the sea levels to a catastrophic degree. 

“It will require geological studies to confirm this theory and postulate a reason for it, but the presence of these ‘drowned cities’ make it all but certain that some such climate disaster did take place, effectively wiping out the civilisation that created them.”

“But _completely?_ With these big islands still available?” Commander Tucker gestures at the one where they’re planning the landing later on. “There’s fresh water, and stuff to eat, and it’s beautiful down there.”

“Tropical storms at those latitudes, surely?” Lieutenant Reed stands slightly further away from the table than usual, arms crossed almost as if defending himself from the sight of all that unbroken expanse of water; only one small area of the planet had land-masses tall enough to defy the advancing oceans. Still, this can be no more than a coincidence; as the son of a Royal Navy family he probably knows more than most aboard _Enterprise_ about the movement of air masses around the earth’s equator and the stormy weather conditions they produce, which are things that ships’ officers will naturally encounter on the high seas. The knowledge probably hasn’t been much use to him in the airless and waterless reaches of Space, but he still must fix a wary, knowledgeable eye on the rotating weather systems of every planet they come across.

“Almost certainly,” T’Pol replies placidly. “But people who effectively have nowhere else to go will not be deterred by weather conditions.”

Ensign Sato shivers slightly, though she says nothing. As the ship’s language specialist she’ll be one of the landing party, tasked with finding and, if possible, interpreting any fragments of language the long-dead inhabitants of the planet left behind them. 

The shuttlepod will be carrying diving equipment. There are quite a number of expert divers among the crew, even some among the archaeology team, and much may be learned from a study of the sunken cities. Even from orbit the unmistakable rectangular patterns of streets and houses are visible, though the action of the waves over possibly many centuries has been almost as unfriendly as the invading jungle that has smothered the few houses left on land.

Where there is diving to be done, Commander Tucker will never be far behind. He hasn’t managed to coax the captain into allowing him down with the initial investigating team, but has mentioned the length of time since their last shore leave – and the _absolute suitability_ of the current location for swimming, surfing and relaxing – so many times that even good-natured Ensign Mayweather appears likely to throw something at him if he mentions it again. Even if he does so in conjunction with a reference to there being cliffs just inland which would be heaven for any guy whose idea of fun is hauling himself up them with ropes and pitons.

=/\=

Malcolm is suspicious. That’s his job, and he’s very good at it. He scowls at that very, very watery world, which he instinctively distrusts even more than a desert one, and tries to find plausible reasons why nobody should visit it at all.

The weather is disobliging; it’s sunny, bright, warm, and unlikely to change. The seas are warm and clear, and actually rather less saline than Earth’s, though still not drinkable. The geology appears stable; not so much as a vaguely pressurised tectonic plate or a slumbering underwater volcano disturbs the landscape for thousands of kilometres. The fauna, while presumably provided with the average number of predators to keep the biological balance, don’t seem to provide any specific threat to Humans who are bright enough to keep their wits about them (now seated at Tactical, Malcolm levels a Stare at Captain Archer, who is talking to Travis about the cliffs now Trip has finally been shooed away to Engineering). The flora ... well, his allergy shots are up to date, and this time the landing party will be far more vigilant for unexpected substances in any pollen that may be blown their way. That much he can be sure of, because water or no water he’ll be there to make sure they are – or if not in person, deputised for by one of his staff who will be so drilled in the necessary precautions that they could (and quite possibly do) recite them in their sleep. He’s mentioned the necessity for protection for landing parties so often that it’s unimaginable to him that anybody, _ever_ , in the entire future history of Starfleet, will ever dare to neglect such an obvious precaution again.

This comforting delusion lasts precisely until the personnel detail for the first exploratory mission is being discussed later that day.

“I can’t see any reason for a security detail, Lieutenant,” says Archer cheerfully, appearing not to notice that his security officer is staring at him, aghast. “I’m sure you can find something to do with the targeting sensors if you’d rather stay aboard...”

There are sub-tones in his voice that take little interpreting. Nobody but the two of them on board ship knows the story of his great-uncle’s watery, heroic end in the _Clement_ , and sheer grit got Malcolm through the basic Starfleet swimming tests. And no-one ever knew what he was like the night before or the afternoon afterwards, or how many nights of shattered sleep the achievement cost him. Having lost his future as an officer in the Navy, however, he hadn’t been about to be robbed of a place in Starfleet. 

The captain, of course, knows nothing of that part of the story. In a moment’s drug-addled weakness, pinned to the hull by a Romulan mine and convinced his last hour had come, Reed had confessed to a secret terror of drowning; and now, compassionately, he’s being offered a way out that will surprise nobody. He’d done such a superb job to start with of creating the humourless stereotype he now fills that probably half the crew still suspect that his inability to smile is a congenital defect he was born with, though he can only hope that at least his Armoury team now regard him with something warmer than respect. He thinks they do, and he feels he’s established an excellent working relationship with his Beta and Gamma shift deputies, but he knows far better than to put any great reliance on his reading of subtler interactions like friendships. His shy accord with a certain Commander Tucker is a novelty he cherishes but still isn’t _quite_ sure of the parameters of, though lately he’s ventured to start doing his own share of teasing when they’re off duty – a development that certainly would not be approved of in the Reed household were his father to learn of it. Playful interaction between officers of differing ranks would not, apparently, be tolerated aboard a _real_ ship.

“Ensign Gomez has an Open Water diving certification, sir,” he says levelly now, with just a hint of appeal. He appreciates Archer’s subtle kindness, of course he does, but _no security at all?_

The planet is beautiful. A tropical paradise. 100%, 24-carat, genuine, foolproof, money-back-if-you’re-not-completely-satisfied safe...

Ensign Gomez also has the fastest draw with a phase pistol in the Armoury. If they’d ever competed, she’d quite possibly have beaten him. Her small-arms accuracy is phenomenal, though with a rifle he’s the better of the two of them.

(He enjoys a brief and unworthy mental image of Em’s voluptuous figure poured into a wet-suit with a harpoon gun poised for action cradled in her arms. The regulations and their respective ranks may draw an unbridgeable divide between them in that respect, but there’s no regulation that says you can’t imagine.)

“I suppose there’s no harm having her along to keep an eye on the diving team, then,” the captain says thoughtfully. 

“I think that would be an excellent idea, sir.” Malcolm draws a stealthy breath of relief.

At least _somebody_ with sense will be going.


	2. Chapter 2

To Malcolm’s inward surprise, but certainly not to his disappointment, the landing party return without a single instance of misadventure to relate. The planet is as harmless as it is fascinating as it is beautiful.

“If the _capitán_ agrees to give shore leave then you should take some too, _Patrón_ ,” Em says when he comes to the Armoury to get her report prior to starting his shift on the Bridge. “It feels good to have sand between your toes again.”

“Thank you for the thought, Ensign, but I was never that keen on the feeling of sand between my toes. There was invariably some left when I put my socks on.” He studies the PADD with the latest simulation results on, hoping she’ll take the hint.

“I think you may have little choice,” she comments with a grin as he hands it back. “ _Comandante_ Tucker was much taken with our reports of the place. He is determined to teach you diving.” 

He contents himself with a snort, but the feeling of dread has settled in his stomach. Discipline dictates that he keep an unmoved face but when he is alone in the corridor outside he leans momentarily against the wall, trying to calm the sudden panicked thudding of his heart.

The captain knows – the captain understands. The captain won’t make him do this...

=/\=

The captain has been persuaded. Trip’s right – it _has_ been a long time since their last spell of shore leave, and the lure of a planet where there are no dangers to speak of and kilometres of sun-drenched beaches and blue lagoons is too tempting to resist. It’s even possible to combine business with pleasure, for a day spent carrying out valid and potentially even valuable research can be followed by an evening of relaxation under the stars. Even the temperatures at night at the chosen landing place hardly fall low enough to make shelter a necessity, and there are plenty of trees to provide firewood. He still has faint childhood memories of camping out with his father on odd days snatched from the ceaseless pursuit of the Warp 5 engine, and the thought of revisiting the experience among his officers and crew is delightful. 

One would have thought that a Vulcan at least would have seen little virtue in exchanging the comforts of a safe, comfortable, air-conditioned cabin for the dubious delights of a bed in the sand. However, Trip in the grip of one of his occasional enthusiasms can speak with unexpected passion, and somehow manages to woo even T’Pol into agreeing to go along for the experience. She admits to having offered to help one of her staff with some sample-gathering, but when that’s done she’ll join the others rather than return to the ship. Not that she seems to expect it to be a particularly _pleasant_ experience – Jon suspects it’s more of a potential source of subtle digs at the things Humans regard as enjoyable, and for sure the previous attempt hadn’t ended so well – but whatever her motive, she consents to be one of the first wave of those spending a couple of days down on the planet. There’s enough here to justify giving everyone forty-eight hours, so the crew will draw lots for which rotation they’ll go down on. Even Phlox has apparently allowed himself to be coaxed into seeing if there might be anything to be usefully added to his unorthodox pharmacopeia.

Unfortunately, although the captain gently but firmly overrules Trip’s protestations that _anybody_ can learn to dive, it’s as easy as falling off a jetty (not a phrase likely to particularly recommend the pastime to Malcolm), any hopes of his Armory officer being allowed to remain on board and look after the ship instead are dashed by the ship’s CMO, who is insistent that _all_ of the crew should take R and R. Or – if any one of them is particularly obdurate – at the very least, get a change of scenery. _Without_ sneaking down a PADD from the Armory, the Denobulan adds sternly, just in case anyone might not realize which particular individual he had in mind.

It isn’t as if there’s nothing for Malcolm to do down there on his ‘R and R’ day. If he won’t dive and he doesn’t particularly fancy joining Travis in climbing and he’s apparently informed Trip that he’d rather eat Phlox’s toenail clippings than ‘just lie on the sand getting toasted like a teacake’, he has the option to go and make himself useful with any one of the teams who’ll be going down there to study things on their working days. If that’s what he’d prefer to do, he can fetch and carry and make notes for anyone who needs a hand. It’s hardly relaxing, but it’s a change, and the captain knows that Malcolm has an extremely limited tolerance for doing nothing.

Still, Malcolm _is_ supposed to be relaxing, at least for one of the days, and it’s only right that he should be given the choice of finding something to do that appeals to him more. If it was a case of fetching ammunition and carrying rifles and making notes about any and all aspects of weapons performance, he’d undoubtedly be first in the queue to oblige, relaxation be damned. As it is, the idea of toting tins of geological samples and biological specimens about in tropical heat will probably be enough to make him eye the shady areas at the edge of the beach and realize that a day spent reading there might be the best of a bad job. After all, however ‘harmless’ this planet is, that’s the area where his superior officers are going to be and therefore that’s where his priority will be – however passionate he may be about protecting even the ‘small fry’ of the crew (which Jon doesn’t doubt for a moment), if a hard choice _has_ to be made, for him there are no choices. As harsh as it is, he’ll have been ordered to prioritise the safety of the people Starfleet have made the greatest investment in.

And whatever the moral aspects of the equation may be, it’s really as simple as that.


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm’s not really sure what he’ll be doing on his ‘working’ day tomorrow, but he has nebulous thoughts of running refresher courses in survival. Naturally he’ll be working with different materials than he did back on Earth, but the principles are the same, and after living in the sterile conditions of a starship for months on end it’ll probably feel more like fun than work to the participants. He doesn’t mind that, knows that things you enjoy are more likely to stay in the memory, and as long as everyone who attends gleans at least something that might one day save their life, it won’t be time wasted.

But today it’s his ‘relaxation day’. In his quarters he dresses himself somewhat gloomily in his leisure clothes of T-shirt and jeans, then casts a wistful look at the PADD on his desk and wonders if he could get away with smuggling it in his spare T-shirt and hide it behind the book he could pretend to be reading. What he’d _really_ like to take, of course, is a pellet gun and a target that he could set up somewhere out of the way and spend a happy day taking pot-shots at, but he already knows better than to mention the idea. His small bag of effects contain the spare shirt, his running kit (at least beaches offer kilometres’ worth of sand, which will provide a more challenging surface than the treadmill in the gym), plus a towel wrapped around a travel razor, a comb and his book. After an inward struggle he takes out the phase pistol that was also wrapped in it, but then on a note of defiance slips in his ivory knife; a protector needs something to protect _with._

The shuttlepods are running – well, a ‘shuttle’ service. With forty-two passengers on the first day and forty-one on the third, plus their necessary luggage, and relatively little space available for them all, they’ve been on the move since midway through the Gamma shift. Everyone has their boarding time allocated and is expected to be at the launch bay punctually; today it’s even probable that Trip will be early, though if he’s already wearing one of his ghastly Hawaiian shirts there’s going to be a squabble.

=/\=

The camp having been already set up – not that there’s much to it, apart from a couple of tents where their equipment can be safely stored overnight – the landing party stow in these what they need to and break up about their respective businesses. Some will be working today and relaxing tomorrow, the others vice versa.

Unsurprisingly, Trip has chosen to relax today. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be spent diving too, but then he’ll be accompanying the less expert divers among the archaeologists, keeping an eye on them while they search the ruins in the lagoon. Today Em is taking that role and has already taken a team into the water; in the interests of professionalism, Malcolm’s glad he won’t be tempted to check how close his imagination came to the reality. At least he can be confident that the divers today will be very thoroughly protected. Even though she’s only just come off Gamma shift, his deputy will be more than equal to standing in for him.

The sky is blue and cloudless, the glass-clear sea only a few shades darker and hardly disturbed by the waves that paint a small frill of movement on the cream-coloured sand. At the back of the beach is the forest – ‘jungle’ would probably be more accurate, though the humidity isn’t high enough to be unpleasant; he’s experienced much worse in visits to Malaysia. Still, it’s very warm, and the growth of greenery is thick. Those who’ve decided to go inland and investigate the ruins there will have their work cut out. 

As the shuttlepod lifts off again, Malcolm glances up and down the beach. Trip’s already heading for where the divers have left their stuff just above the tide-line, stripping off his borderline-abominable shirt. Quite a few of the early arrivals are already enjoying the sunshine before it gets too hot, some lying on towels on the sand, some in the water. Others are relaxing in the shade, as he plans to do during the afternoon; Ensign Tanner is already there, efficiently noting down on a PADD the names of those who’ve arrived and what plans they have for the day. Everyone not in immediate view is under orders to check in regularly to make sure they’re safe and happy.

Feeling a slight twinge of irritation that his job of protecting everybody has been quietly taken off him (the captain definitely knows him far too well, but at least Ensign Tanner can be thoroughly relied on in a crisis), Malcolm heads for the equipment tent. He can leave his bag there for now, all he needs from it is his running kit and shoes. If he’s going to go for a run, it makes sense to do it while the day’s comparatively cool; when he comes back he can bathe – with the appropriate caution, and firmly declining any and all suggestions that diving is fun and anybody can do it – and then eat lunch and relax with his book.

As he reaches it, T’Pol and one of her juniors from the exobotany team emerge, with a carry-case held between them. Crewmen Gwyn Trefor is a tall, red-haired Welshman who makes the diminutive Vulcan look so tiny by comparison that simply to see them together is enough to make one smile inwardly. 

“Sir.” Trefor directs a nervous smile at him. The crewman’s far too much in awe of him to ask what he’s planning to do with _his_ day, so he simply nods and lets both of them walk past him, suffocating a tiny, treacherous twinge of sadness that even after all this time, on shore leave he really is still regarded by some as an officer rather than a human being. 

He’s hardly deposited his bag neatly to one side of the pile of belongings and opened it to fetch out what he needs before a sharp cry from outside brings him darting out again. The cause of the alarm isn’t too far away; Trefor is face-down on the sand, while T’Pol stumbles with the suddenly unbalanced weight of the carry-case and drops it with a clatter of its contents. Her Vulcan strength keeps her upright and she could have easily carried the case herself if she’d been expecting to, but her companion’s weight dragged on it as he fell and for a couple of seconds her dignity suffers a bit as she churns forward a pace or two, anchored and unbalanced by her grip of the handle he’s still holding.

Cursing inwardly that he hasn’t even had time to fetch out his precious knife, Malcolm swings a sharp glance around, sure he’ll find that this place really _isn’t_ the innocuous paradise it seemed to be; something has attacked one of his charges already, and they’ve hardly set foot on the planet! 

But there’s no lurking denizen of the innocent sand that can be held responsible for the attack; at least, not unless a half-buried tree root can be accused of malicious intent. Trefor was so occupied by the excitement of the upcoming expedition that he simply forgot to look where he was putting his feet, and the soft sand collapsing slightly under his weight slid his foot partly underneath the root before he realised. His forward impetus was brought abruptly to a halt in an extremely painful way, and as he struggles upright and gingerly frees his foot from the snare it’s clear that the accident has done it no good. 

Possibly the fact that he was wearing sensible standard–issue boots saved him from worse, but as Malcolm gently eases off the boot to check the damage he hears the stifled gasp of pain. Even the slightest attempt to rotate the joint hurts, and though Phlox is due with the second contingent his deputy Crewman Cutler is expected on the next flight down, and will undoubtedly have a medical scanner better able to tell her the details of the injury. Although he’s had basic training in field medicine the lieutenant knows he’s nowhere near qualified to diagnose exactly what’s wrong; still, he knows what to do in the meantime, and shortly a blushing and embarrassed Crewman Trefor is installed lying down in the shade, foot cushioned and elevated on a bedroll and the ankle wrapped in a piece of cloth wet through with cold water from a drinking bottle.

“Holy God, Ma’am, I’m so sorry!” groans the fallen exobotanist, looking up at his senior officer. “Perhaps the doc can fix me up and I’ll be fit to come with you tomorrow instead? Maeve had her heart set on getting some specimens for her project!”

“Don’t even think about it, Crewman,” says Malcolm shortly. “Doctor Phlox is an excellent physician, but even he can’t mend a sprain in twenty-four hours – and we don’t even know yet if this is just a sprain.”

T’Pol backs him up. Undoubtedly in the effort to cheer up her fallen junior, however, she tells Trefor that maybe someone else will be willing to accompany her to check out the site they were going to look at. She knows where it is, and anticipates no danger, but it’s merely a sensible precaution that no-one on a strange planet – however harmless it may be – should go out unaccompanied.

Doom beckons Malcolm irresistibly. How can he possibly argue against his own advice?

“It would be unfortunate to miss an opportunity if there was a specific site you were interested in, Sub-Commander,” he says evenly, abandoning both his run and his afternoon’s relaxation with a mental shrug _._ “I’m afraid botany isn’t my strong point, but if you simply need someone to help carry the equipment and take notes, I think they’re not beyond my competence altogether.”

“Sir, it’s very kind of you, but–”

“It is very kind of you to offer, Lieutenant,” T’Pol replies gravely when the Welshman appears to have no idea of what to say after ‘but’. “If you would be willing to assist me today, I’m sure the captain would have no objection to you taking your leisure day tomorrow instead.”

“If my help isn’t adequate for what you were intending to do, of course, Crewman, I completely understand,” he continues, glancing back to the exobotanist. “But if samples are required for a particular project, it seems a pity to do without them.”

The name ‘Maeve’ has told him the name of the person for whom the samples are required: Maeve Doyle, another of the exobotany team. Malcolm knows her, as he knows all of the crew, though can’t remember ever having spoken to her about anything significant. Her heart-shaped face, framed in chestnut curls, is heartbreakingly young and innocent. She’s probably straight out of University after completing her Masters, and _Enterprise_ was almost certainly the first starship she’d ever set foot on apart from those necessary for basic training.

The hesitation before the response tells him that there’s an underlying reason why Trefor had his heart set on being the one to collect the samples his colleague wants. A female Vulcan helper wouldn’t present any particular competition for gratitude, but a male senior officer could possibly (it’s amazing how stupid you can be when you’re young and in love) be perceived as a possible rival. A carry-case full of alien plants hardly qualifies as a bouquet of a dozen red roses in the average way, but then beauty is in the eye of the beholder – and value in the eyes of the recipient.

“If Crewman Cutler believes spending the day here resting would be beneficial for you, you can take any samples we collect back to the ship when you return,” he observes, injecting into his tone just enough bored indifference to convey no interest whatsoever in Crewman Doyle’s gratitude for services rendered. As for the ridiculous idea that anyone her age would be even remotely likely to suddenly develop some idiotic ‘crush’ on him, it’s rather on a par with Andromeda falling for the Sea Serpent rather than Perseus.

He appears to have succeeded in allaying Trefor’s anxieties. As long as the Sea Serpent from the Armoury can be kept out of the final picture, his help in gathering samples for the delight of the temporarily incapacitated Andromeda will be perfectly acceptable.

“Well, if you’re sure, sir...”

“Quite sure. One minute, please.” He goes back to the tent and retrieves his towel. He also takes out the ivory knife, which he slips into his jeans pocket. If he’d stayed on the beach, within easy reach of it if required, it could have stayed in the bag. As it is, if he’s to travel inland, with a senior officer under his protection, he’s not going unarmed – and, adds a flippantly rebellious part of his mind, _to hell with what the captain thinks._ The towel goes around his neck, for they may be walking or working out in the midday sun and even though Phlox has issued everyone with the appropriate sunscreen he still prefers to keep the back of his neck covered.

Thus provided, he returns to his new companion and takes the hiking pole that will now no longer be any use whatsoever to its owner. It’s far too long for him, but luckily it’s adjustable. Then, after advising Tanner of the change of plan and asking him to ensure that Crewman Cutler treats Trefor’s injury as a priority on her arrival (he can be returned to _Enterprise_ on the shuttle if necessary), he follows T’Pol into the forest, watching her carefully consult her scanner and a compass.

Well.

It isn’t what he’d been expecting to do when he came down here (however dutiful he may be about following orders, when the captain gave him the option he’d been glad enough to be able to decline) but if there are men who’ll allow one of their charges to walk alone into potential danger, Malcolm Reed isn’t one of them. It’s irrelevant that she’s probably at least as good at martial arts as he is, nor that even though she’s female, Vulcan physiology means she’s considerably stronger. His rule is that two are safer than one, and he’s not waiving it just because she’d probably be able to wipe the floor with him in the unlikely event of a punch-up.

And if that means carting canisters about and being dutifully if extremely temporarily interested in botanical specimens, well –

Having to follow T’Pol about anywhere for any length of time definitely has its compensations. 


	4. Chapter 4

A day’s field study that has been prepared for with intense care has now taken on quite a different dimension. For all that Vulcan logic forbids T’Pol from regretting the loss of a colleague whose knowledge of the environment they were about to seek out is probably considerably greater than her own, as she leads the way into the jungle she cannot help but feel it rather unfortunate that she has not had more time in which to understand which specific types of samples will be most rewarding. Crewman Doyle is studying for a PhD in her chosen field, and though it will be simple enough to gather a good selection from whatever plants are available, it might well have been more helpful to concentrate on one specific species – if only either of the gatherers knew what it was likely to be.

Having worked with his colleague for some months, Crewman Trefor would have known far better what to look for. Time spent trying to describe each potential specimen will be time wasted, however, so T’Pol will simply have to gather what she can in the available period and trust that at least some of the items will be of interest.

She is conscious that Crewman Doyle has worked enormously hard in preparation for such an opportunity. When the initial scans of the planet showed up this one particular place, it fitted so exactly what the young Human had been hoping to find that she could hardly wait to obtain permission to come down with her colleague and investigate it. She’d imbued him with almost the same degree of excitement, and it had been clear how much they were looking forward to spending the whole day in each other’s company, taking samples and comparing their findings and just enjoying the whole experience of being – as Captain Archer had so fondly anticipated on the ship’s setting out – ‘real explorers’.

It had been the worst of luck (to employ a Human term) that Doyle had emerged from a turbo-lift the previous evening just in time to encounter Porthos, who had been scampering past it during his nightly exercise outing. She had not seen the canine in time to avoid him, the captain had not been close enough to prevent her falling over and hitting her head against the opposite wall, and the outcome had been a severe concussion and a lump on her forehead the size of a modest egg.

Although naturally disappointed that Phlox refused to sanction her going gathering samples on shore leave the very next day, she’d said bravely that she was sure Gwyn (Crewman Trefor) would know just what she was looking for. As their senior officer, and with some knowledge of her own in this field, T’Pol had offered to accompany him.

Now, as though some imaginary malevolent entity has taken up a personal determination to rob a hardworking and conscientious young scientist of the chance she has been hoping for with every planetfall the ship has made, Crewman Trefor has also suffered an injury. As a result, the gathering of the precious samples is left to one officer who knows something, but not nearly enough, and another who knows absolutely nothing at all and cannot reasonably be expected to.

Unfortunate, to say the least, but there is nothing else to be done.

Although nowhere near as expert as either of the exobotanists in their chosen fields, T’Pol had seen the opportunity to advance her own learning – never wasted effort – as well as helping to ensure that such a valuable opportunity should not be entirely lost. Nevertheless, she had been somewhat apprehensive of Trefor’s anxiety in her company leading him into trying to constantly make what Humans termed ‘casual conversation’. Now, however regrettable it is that the fruits of the expedition may not be nearly as useful as they might otherwise have been, she finds some consolation in the company of an officer as little given as she is herself to making conversation just for the sake of it.

There is, indeed, no alternative. If neither of the crewmen concerned can come and inspect the site for themselves, she and Lieutenant Reed will simply have to be meticulous in recording everything possible as they take their samples so the exobiology team can go over it all afterwards together back aboard ship. It will undoubtedly not be the same, but it will be better than nothing, and there are laboratories and computers that will be useful in making sense of what they find. 

The two of them have travelled for some distance in a relatively comfortable silence before Reed speaks. “If I may ask, Sub-Commander, what environment exactly are we going to study today?”

“Crewman Doyle’s speciality is wetland plants, Lieutenant,” she replies calmly. “There’s a marsh about three kilometres inland, and she is anxious to secure as many samples as possible of whatever native species there are.”

The silence is only as long as a briefly held breath, but she hears it.

“Is it an extensive marsh?” Now it’s not just careful, it’s absolutely _stilted_. She gets the profound impression that he’s said it because he has to say something, but behind the mask his mind is racing furiously. 

“Sufficiently large to support a reasonable abundance of species. Approximately ninety-five metres across at its widest point.”

“And depth?”

“According to the scans Crewman Doyle sent me, it varies.” She lifts her own hiking pole. “That’s one of the reasons why we’ve brought these, so we can test our footing. But though Vulcan has no swamps to speak of, I have undertaken the appropriate research and I understand that as long as you take the proper precautions and abide by the rules, swamps generally pose little danger. And at least this one has no alligators or predators of any significant size. 

“Crewman Doyle informs me that depending on the conditions and on the evolutionary paths followed by this planet there will probably be lizards, perhaps a few snakes, and insects of course. I have some insect repellent if you have none of your own.”

“I wasn’t precisely expecting to go swamp-hunting, Sub-Commander.” The tone is so rueful that she suspects he’s already been bitten but has stubbornly refused to mention it to anyone without medical expertise, so instead of leaving him till he gets so many bites it makes him ill, she lowers the carry-bag. The canister of insect-repellent is in one of the pockets and it’s the work of a minute for him to apply it to the exposed parts of himself. She notes with relief that he’s wearing regulation boots rather than the leisure shoes that might have been expected – at a guess he hadn’t had time to change them before Crewman Trefor had the accident, and the hems of his denim jeans are tucked into them. She then has to spray some on his face, which feels slightly strange because she’s never been in his personal space before, and even though he dutifully covers his closed eyes with his fingers to make absolutely sure none of the spray goes in them there’s an odd sort of intimacy in the act; he’s trusting her.

“There. That should be adequate.”

He opens his eyes. Close up, they’re grey and oddly opaque, and he steps back immediately to a proper distance.

“How long is it effective for?”

“We’ll reapply after lunch, just to be on the safe side.” 

There seems nothing else needed to say after that, so they resume their trek.

It’s uneventful, apart from glimpses of birds and insects that will presumably be the object of intense interest to the other branches of scientific study. If it were Trefor walking beside her there would probably be a fair number of comments even despite his awe of her rank and species, but though Lieutenant Reed is clearly keeping a constant watch on their surroundings it’s unlikely he’s interested in the birds and beasts that can occasionally be glimpsed, except possibly suspecting them of harboring dark intentions regarding the visitors. She can already guess he’s not especially interested in wetland plants either, but like the dutiful officer he is, he will simply stay quiet and take notes and photographs of whatever she tells him to.

Though the background noises of a jungle as well as the unavoidable sounds of their own progress mean the environment is far from silent, their quiet companionship is extremely agreeable. Apart from their professional roles she’s had little interaction with the Englishman, but she knows that he is intelligent, conscientious and obedient. More of an acquaintance with botany would admittedly be an improvement in the present circumstances, but things could definitely be worse.

Three kilometres over open terrain is no great distance at all, and both of the travelers are extremely fit. But this is far from open terrain – it’s a jungle where everything green fights for space and sunlight, and every footstep has to be measured and placed with care. The scanner shows up considerable numbers of what appear to be lurking insectivores, any of which may bite and all of which should be avoided, and between the effortful walking and the wary regard for things that may be resentful of being brushed against or trodden on, even T’Pol is more relieved than she would care to admit when they finally arrive at the fringes of the marsh.


	5. Chapter 5

The area is characterized by being an island of open sky in the midst of the canopy. Presumably none of the surrounding trees can set seed in the boggy ground, its center mostly occupied by rustling stands of tall, feathery reeds, their fronds a softer blue than the sky above them.

It’s not all reeds, of course. Down nearer the glistening surface of the marsh are many other types of plant that have evolved to take advantage of the environment, and T’Pol has a highly-detailed grid map laid out on the PADD she carries, lovingly prepared by Crewman Doyle. On this the location of each species can be meticulously mapped, insofar as can be achieved in the time they have – it would probably take days and far more personnel for a full account to be put together. Each new discovery has to be photographed at site and a sample carefully taken for analysis – leaves, roots (if possible) and any flowers or berries that may be available.

Her scanner is an invaluable tool. It’s pre-loaded with various settings, and as she starts work at the edge of the marshy ground, requesting her obliging assistant to lay out a variety of sample jars ready for use, she starts with a preliminary survey of the substratum into which the plants’ roots delve down. Naturally the primary return is water, brackish at best and probably highly unsafe for drinking, but it gives her an overview of the environment. And the first thing she notices – an extremely exciting discovery already, if Vulcans were prone to excitement – is that a huge area of the marsh is occupied by what’s effectively a single plant, rooted very, very deep down. Its tendrils spread everywhere, and a striking number of the other species appear to be parasitizing it, far more so than she’d normally expect to find. 

The development is so unusual that after using her communicator to confirm their safe arrival at their intended location with Ensign Tanner back at the beach, after a brief hesitation she also uses it to contact Crewman Doyle aboard _Enterprise_ and tell her about the unusually high incidence of parasitization here – Crewman Trefor had already asked permission to keep his colleague updated of any significant findings. Apparently Humans value receiving ‘tantalizing hints’ to relieve the boredom and frustration of waiting, and even though T’Pol may not in herself understand the value of such things, the reception she gets for the news suggests that it is indeed extremely welcome. She even refrains from pointing out that ‘I can’t wait to see it for myself!’ is illogical, since her junior will _have_ to wait, until either the specimens, photographs and scans are brought on board or the doctor gives permission for her to investigate in person. Still, Humans _are_ an excitable species in general, and if an intermittent commentary is beneficial for Doyle’s morale, there seems no harm in providing one.

The clump of low-growing dark green leaves in front of her belong to one of these parasitic plants. The scanner detects no toxins in its chemical make-up and no lurking denizens inside it but she dons strong gloves anyway, though she’s brought instruments that mean she would never have to touch anything with her bare hands. A plain metal probe does duty to bend the stems and then a pair of secateurs snips off a single leaf, which is carefully transferred via a pair of narrow-jawed pliers into the waiting jar. A couple of withered seed-heads found low down near the damp ground suggest that this plant is past its flowering date by some time, but one of these is also snipped off and transferred to the jar. That done, she photographs the plant (both close up and in its location), dictates the appropriate information into the PADD Lieutenant Reed is holding for her, and sits back on her heels. A mask is an obvious precaution when you’re dealing with plants that may possibly bleed or even squirt sap when cut, but despite her high Vulcan tolerance for heat the humidity here is rather disagreeable. Perspiration is already gathering underneath the edge of the mask and she peels back the cuff of her glove to wipe her face with the back of her wrist.

“Is that it?” Reed asks, waiting patiently to put the top on the jar. He has no gloves on yet, but he has used hand sanitizer to avoid contaminating the jars when he handles them, and there are gloves in the bag he can use if for any reason he has to handle any of the samples; in the meantime, wearing them would make entering data on the PADD extremely difficult.

“Almost.” She replaces the mask and bends to the plant again. “There’s a connection here I want to examine...”

The mud is not just thick and glutinous, it’s smelly (fortunately she applied extra nasal numbing agent beforehand in the expectation it would be needed), and almost as soon as she starts to dig into it dozens of small, brilliantly orange flies appear, clearly anxious to explore the uncovered goo. It’s not clear whether they’re searching it for food or hope to lay their eggs in it, but more and more arrive, and within a couple of minutes there are so many of them that even if she managed to find what she was looking for she’d be hardly able to get a look at it for the number of winged bodies crawling determinedly over every millimetre.

“Good job you brought the insect repellent, Sub-Commander,” says the lieutenant, dryly humorous as he observes the onslaught.

It almost makes her wish she could use the spray here, but she can’t of course. Introducing foreign chemicals into the environment would be unforgivable. Nevertheless, she illogically wishes the wretched creatures would absent themselves for just for a _minute._

They don’t, of course; they’re not there to be obliging.

Whatever they want, they want it very, very badly. She’s wasting valuable time trying to persuade them to leave, and so she abandons the investigation. Still, there’s another plant not far away that’s exhibiting the same attachment; this one looks like a type of miniature waterlily, though the open flowers are the colour of Earth buttercups and feature an elongated spray of stamens like a purple fountain in the middle of each. The attraction of this one is that the attachment to the host plant is in a pool of free water, and she should be able to lift it up to get a good idea of the pattern and strength of it.

Having used the hiking pole to determine very carefully that the pool where she intends to step into it is only knee-deep and the bottom – although naturally muddy – will support her weight without sinking too much further, T’Pol dons the chest-high waders she’s brought. She looks up to find Lieutenant Reed scowling with worry.

“Is this really necessary, Sub-Commander?” he asks, his tone suggesting that as reluctant as he is to question the actions of a superior officer, his concern over the potential danger is paramount.

Though she nods, according his concern the appropriate respect, she explains patiently that these samples may form important subjects for research papers that will at the very least form part of Crewman Doyle’s PhD project, and that the potential benefits of obtaining them outweigh the foreseeable risks. However objectionable the environment is, there is no possible way of obtaining samples without, unfortunately, getting into the water where they live. Although she anticipates no danger, she will take every care. Both of which are the absolute truth.

He does not look convinced, but continuing to argue would be insubordination. So she makes her way slowly and carefully into the water, steadying herself with the pole and feeling her way to every step. The ‘waterlily’ is less than two metres from the edge and the scans suggest the whole marsh isn’t that deep anywhere – the impervious rock basin in which the wetland is enclosed is relatively shallow, and she estimates the deepest part anywhere does not exceed three metres. But that’s quite a distance away, and certainly on today’s schedule they won’t get anywhere near it.

She reaches the lily without event and carries out the same procedure: the plant is scanned, a single leaf is incised from the plant, and a single flower – one just on the verge of opening. The fully open bloom is singularly beautiful, its petals as glossy as licked gold, and the fragrance it gives off carries no trace of any sinister or noxious chemicals whatsoever. Both samples are placed in a sample jar hung from a strap around her neck to leave her hands free. Photographs are taken and location noted, and then she turns back to study the host, whose surprisingly thick tubular stem is becoming dimly visible as the mud stirred up by her footsteps starts to settle.

Now she’s able to examine it, the lily’s long roots attach to the host stem at several points. Interestingly, the scanner suggests that it’s a more complex interaction than she’d originally supposed: what appeared to be a simple enough case of parasitism may in fact be closer to a symbiosis. But to test this theory she’ll need to get a sample of the host stem – preferably an offshoot if she can find one, in order to minimise the disruption to what now seems to be a surprisingly complex organic operation. 

It’s not difficult to find one. With the lily, as with the plant at the water’s edge, there’s a single shoot of the host that pushes up through the waterlily stems. It’s very well camouflaged and the tip of it’s hidden among a thick cluster of lily buds, but she tracks it up and gently pushes away the buds, expecting to uncover a tightly-folded shoot ready to put out leaves. What she finds, however, is more like a seed-pod than anything else: small enough to sit easily in her palm if broken from the stem, it’s brown in colour, slightly elongated, and has a surface pocked with tiny holes – presumably for seed dispersal.

Naturally, once she’s handed over the lily samples and received a new clean jar in return she has to go through the proper routine all over again, keeping the seed pod in view for examination. Seeds are a valuable source of nutrition for many creatures, which is possibly the reason why these structures have evolved to remain hidden. Still, there’s always a chance that some insect has crawled inside this particular one and either eaten the contents or selected it as a food source for its larva, so a scan’s more important than ever. It would be wasted effort to take it as a sample and find too late that there was nothing useful inside it, except possibly a larva which would be of no interest whatsoever to Crewman Doyle, though it might well be an unexpected bonus to the exobiology department.

She takes the scan and flicks on the screen. The results have her frowning. “Was this scanner thoroughly checked?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course; equipment for research expeditions is always exhaustively tested by the engineering department before issue.

“Anything the matter, Sub-Commander?” asks an edgy English voice.

“This doesn’t make sense...”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“This.” She points, but from where he’s standing he probably can’t actually see what she’s pointing at.

It’s undoubtedly his increased anxiety that affects his normally respectful tone. “In what way does it not make sense? Do plants often not make sense?”

“Well, not usually to this degree.” She takes a second reading, which confirms the first. It still doesn’t make any sense, but maybe when they have it in the laboratory back aboard _Enterprise_ the experts there will be able to work out what’s going on. The structures it reveals are not seeds, at least nothing like any seeds she’s ever seen, though these may be in process of development somewhere inside. What she _can_ see appears to have a cellular structure so sophisticated that before actually seeing it for herself she would have hesitated to say a plant could develop it.

Whatever its nature and purpose may be, however, there is no doubt whatsoever that it will be of huge interest to Crewman Doyle and potentially enormous significance to the scientific world in general. If the scanner’s results are correct, the contribution to the PhD will almost certainly reach a far wider audience than the assessors in her university. It will merit more than a mention in _Enterprise_ ’s discoveries.

The next step is the photography. The scanner goes safely into one of the pockets of her jacket until it’s required. The tools are already in another, and so she brings out the camera, which is waiting ready in a third. She then bends down to focus on the seed-pod...

...which has disappeared.

“What...?”

“What?” Reed almost barks. “Sub-Commander, please advise the situation!”

She looks around, surprised by the level of tension in his voice. “It’s nothing, Lieutenant,” she says politely. “Perhaps there was a fish.” Though she didn’t see any flash of movement or hear anything more than the tiniest splash, perhaps the pods are considered a delicacy by some inhabitant of the marsh, which is possibly another reason why this one had survived in hiding up till now. Something slender and sinuous like an eel could have lunged for it and made hardly any sound.

“Were you bitten?”

“No. I have sustained no injury whatsoever. I was merely startled.”

He glares at the marsh in general as though warning it to behave in future. “Please proceed with caution.”

There’s really no point in persevering if the ‘pod’ has been eaten, so she turns away. Where there was one, there will doubtless be others – it’s simply a case of finding one and making sure that isn’t eaten before she can secure it. There definitely are aquatic creatures in here, though, because there are swirls here and there in the muddy water and the leaves in the first plant shiver; at a guess, something fleeing in a panic ran itself almost aground before it realised.

Fish are not what she came here for, although if a chance to photograph one offers she will take it for the benefit of the biology people. The mobile inhabitants of the swamp will simply have to keep out of her way while she continues her work.

Resolutely she turns back to the pool. Since she has no way of knowing what particular forms of wetland plants will be most appreciated, she will just go to the next, which is quite visually striking – a cluster of tall, almost black leaves from which slender spires of white bells reach up. Once again she uses the pole to test that the intervening pool bottom is capable of bearing her weight, but there is no change. Still, she makes sure that the pole is again braced securely before she commits to a step forward.

Then, “Did you hear that?” she asks sharply, looking up.

“What?” Reed freezes like a _sehlat_ smelling prey. “Did I hear what, Sub-Commander?”

“Someone calling– There!”

Human hearing is not as acute as a Vulcan’s. Nevertheless, the voice is so plain to her that she’s amazed he can’t hear it _._ Hear the pain, the panic – the _need..._

“Who _is_ it?” the Human behind her demands, his voice now with a note of desperation, after a few moments have passed; moments that were filled only with the susurration of the warm wind in the trees and the gently stirring reeds.

She doesn’t answer. Her head’s up, her whole body rigid with concentration. “ _I’m coming!”_ Before she even knows she’s going to move, she leaps forward and without even thinking of the pole that could test her footing she’s lurching forward through the water, heading for the island at the centre of the marsh.

She has no choice.

None at all.

And she doesn’t even know it.


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm has no choice either. The instant she plunges forward so does he, and then he’s in the pool, landing with an almighty splash that must frighten away everything within twenty metres. Fortunately for him he keeps his feet somehow and manages to struggle after her through the water onto slightly more solid ground, though the mud sucks at his legs as he sinks into it, every disturbance attracting thousands of those damned orange flies that whirl around him in clouds.

“T’Pol, who _is_ it? Stop! Wait!” he cries again, splashing after her – protocol be damned, this is no time to be bothering about ranks and titles.

She doesn’t answer. She’s plunging onward, single-minded and frantic, not even looking behind to see if he’s following her, and disappears into the reeds that crowd the island. He clutches at plant stems with ungloved hands, leaving bloodstains on one of them that’s ragged with thorns, desperate to use anything that’ll propel him faster. He hasn’t even got his hiking pole, not that he’d stop to use it if he had; he churns and staggers and falls and flounders and gets up again, with the black horror of drowning waiting to crash down and overwhelm his mind but he can’t afford to listen to that, not yet– pausing only to shout “ _Tell me where you are!_ ” and listen for one palpitating second for sounds that give him a clue where she might be in this wilderness of tall, perpetually rustling stems; and every time he catches sight of her he lunges after her with his heart drubbing in his chest, and other than the maddening whine of the flies there still isn’t a single sound he can hear above it to account for this insane pursuit. 

“Sub-Commander, who are we after?” he all but demands, grabbing her by the elbow when he finally manages to catch up with her. “I can’t hear anyone!”

She doesn’t even glance at him. By this time her face is as filthy as his own must be, there’s even mud in her hair, and in different circumstances he’d cringe at the thought of her mortification at being seen in such a state, but the fixed, staring frenzy in her face is beyond any consideration of her own appearance. As her head twitches to another angle and she lunges off again, pulling herself from his grip as though it was practically powerless, he finally remembers his communicator and claws it out of his pocket.

“ _Enterprise_ , come in!” he gasps, so busy trying to keep his footing and even keep upright in a world where every footstep threatens to sink him up to the knees or pitch him headlong that he can hardly get the words out. “Reed to _Enterprise_ , mayday – we have an emergency!”

“Enterprise _here_ , _Lieutenant. What is the nature of the emergency_?”

It’s not Hoshi. Hoshi is off with one of the other expeditions, looking for inscriptions, and he can only spare a fraction of his mind to groan a prayer that she’s not hearing things too.

“Sub-Commander T’Pol – she–”

She _what,_ for fuck’s sake? ‘She’s charging around in a swamp like a deranged bloody retriever’? ‘She’s lost her bloody marbles and won’t listen to me’? ‘She’s chasing the Invisible Man and scaring the shit out of me’?

Well, any of the three would do nicely, not to mention something along of the lines of ‘and I have this _sneaky feeling_ that one if not both of us is shortly going to die’, but in this instance brevity is definitely best. “She’s chasing someone,” he finally pants, plunging across another muddy pool in pursuit of her. “We’re in a swamp and she’s chasing someone, but I don’t think there’s anyone there!”

“ _Stand by, we will scan your location_.”

“ _Lieutenant._ ” God Above, it’s the captain. _“There are only two bio-signs at your location. Are you sure the sub-commander is chasing a_ person _?”_

He swallows, his already dry mouth suddenly even drier with nerves, but Archer’s voice is steady, reassuring. “Yes, sir. She – she said she heard a voice.”

T’Pol stops again a few metres in front of him, half-hidden in a stand of the reeds that stir and whisper like conspirators and make every tiny clearing and pathway look the same as the one before. Even the mud hides any tell-tale proof of their passing, for as soon as a foot’s pulled free the indentation instantly fills with water and becomes just another opaque pool, yielding nothing. She stares all around, desperately listening.

“T’Pol!” he cries again, his voice almost cracking with fear. “T’Pol, the captain says there’s nobody here but us! _T’Pol!_ ”

She doesn’t even glance around, but churns off again, nearly thigh-deep now. 

The struggle just to keep going is becoming exhausting, pulling each leg out of sucking mud before planting it in again for the next costly step, and the rustling reeds all around cut off all sense of direction; for all he knows they could have been going round in circles. He’d glanced at the PADD while he was laying out the sample jars, so he knows that the underlying geology lifts in a kind of soft bulge in the middle; this is undoubtedly where they are now, more or less on an island of mud, but there are treacherous hollows in it here and there – some of the deepest places in the whole bog – and at one end of it there’s the part where it drops to the maximum.

“She’s not listening to me, sir!” he shouts into the communicator. “For God’s sake, send someone to help – we’ve got to get her out of here!”

For all that they’re pretty closely matched in height, and her petite frame is nowhere near as muscular as his own, he already knows he’s no match for her in a fight. Even his martial arts skills won’t help him; Vulcans have their own equivalent and she’s well trained in them. If he can manage to get hold of her he may be able to slow her down for a few minutes – with luck and some dirty moves – but that’s all he’ll be able to do. Unless he can find something he can knock her over the head with (and there’s small chance of finding any lump of wood that’s not rotted through in this ghastly, stinking sea of mud) he’s going to lose her. If the sample jar she’s still carrying was made of glass he could possibly use that, but the jars are lightweight plastic for safety and ease of carrying and all but unbreakable; if he shot it out of a cannon at her it might make her blink on impact, but that’s about the lot.

The reeds are absolutely bewildering. They’re never still, even when the wind drops momentarily, and if he was more imaginative he could almost think they were actually moving stealthily around when he’s not looking, trying to get between him and the Vulcan he’s pursuing.

Then, suddenly, the mud gets thinner, giving way to water almost without warning. He’s splashing through the edge of a big pool, and glancing aside he sees that it’s full of the glimmering grey tubes of some kind of plant, some of them almost as thick as his wrist, with shoots thrusting up through the surface – every one tipped with a tightly-wrapped leaf shaped like a perfect spear-head.

The terror pounces on him again. _Impaled, imprisoned, dragged down into the airless mud; the water closing over his head, the blue sky glittering and dancing beyond the broken surface above him as he thrashes, swallowing water, breathing water..._

He grabs one of the tall stems beside him and drags his already gashed left hand up it. Thorns break off and bury themselves in his palm, the pain of it dispelling the miasma in his brain. T’Pol’s on the move again, and a fresh burst of deadly determination sends him plunging after her, alternatively staggering through mud or crashing through pools where more and more and more spear-heads are rising slowly through the water and it’s harder and harder not to tread where he’d find out how hard and sharp they are.

Her foot slips, and he grabs her, stops her from reeling over into a dark-gleaming surface broken by a score of points. She fights him off as they both pitch into the ooze, wildly, blindly, not even looking at him, while the forgotten communicator bleats tinnily in his pocket and the flies whirl around them in a blizzard. Both of them are now muddy from head to foot and it’s like trying to keep hold of a conger eel – his only advantage is that she’s trying to escape, not thinking with any of her formidable fighting skills. Propriety flung to the four winds, his torn palm forgotten, he clutches her jacket, her ankles, her wrists, whatever handful he can get of her waders, even her hair – anything that will hold her from bolting again, while with all the breath he has to spare he screams at her that she has to stop. The glitter of light through the quivering reeds in front of him says that there’s space there – a wide space, possibly that big deep pool, footed with waiting bayonets...

Then she stops just trying to escape and starts fighting to get him off her. Her strength is horrifying, and she doesn’t care how much damage she does. Luckily his days working for Starfleet’s Department of Dirty Tricks taught him a few moves that go some way towards limiting the strength of a few of the blows she lands; with him hanging on to her like grim death she can’t get full power into all of the ones that get through, but some of them are savage, hard enough to break ribs, and he can feel his strength bleeding away into the pain.

“ _Lie still, damn you!_ ” Knowing he’s on the verge of losing her, he manages to free one hand, balls it and lands a magnificent left hook on her jaw. The impact whips her head violently to the side and for just a minute bewilderment peeps through the mania; as she shakes her head groggily, her eyes seem to try to focus on him. But just as his hopes rise, the familiar haunted look seizes her again; and now just for a second he almost thinks _he_ hears something too, the strange, thin moaning of the wind through the bending reed-stems, just at the edge of hearing...

“He’s in danger!” she gasps, starting to fight again. “Let me go – I must find him!”

“There’s nobody THERE, I tell you! It’s a bloody trick, you daft haddock, it’s a trap! No – you’re not bloody going anywhere!” And in sheer desperation he grabs her around the body, leans down and sinks his teeth into the angle of her neck like a terrier pinning a rat. 

The next few moments are confused, horrible and atrociously painful. If he’d ever found the spectacle of mud-wrestling amusing he never will again, for she fights like an alley-cat, using all her strength in the effort to kill him. Even fighting back with every dirty trick in his formidable arsenal is only just managing to save him. All the air he can spare is gasped out in expletives around his teeth, mostly to stop himself listening to something that will mean death for both of them if he hears it. Every time he loses his grip with his arms he simply tightens his jaws, trying to see and breathe as best he can for the hordes of flies crawling over his face. There’s blood as well as mud in his mouth, filling it with the metallic taste of copper, but it’s his only advantage and he knows from the involuntary, enraged squirming of her body that it’s horrendously painful for her too. Still, that only makes it more effective, and he has to use anything he can to keep her pinned while help – surely _Enterprise_ will send some immediately! – is on its way.

What he’ll do when it gets here is something he’ll consider when it happens, assuming he’s still alive by then. He doesn’t fancy his chances of keeping a crazed Vulcan under control _and_ explaining to the rescue team what’s going on, especially when he has only the vaguest idea himself. He hopes, but without much expectation, that the rescue will be headed by someone with enough gumption to shoot first and ask questions later, preferably _after_ they’ve checked the phase pistol setting’s on stun. And it’s probably asking a bit much for everyone to turn up wearing ear-muffs. He has hardly any idea how this has happened, though the _why_ is pretty damn obvious, but it’s not going to help anyone if someone else falls under the spell.

He’s just lived somehow through another spasm of struggling and biting and is lying panting for air on top of her – a position that he’s occasionally fantasised about, but it never bloody felt like _this_ in his dreams – when he suddenly notices the mud in front of them is moving.

If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain, the mountain is coming for Mohammed.


	7. Chapter 7

With a stealthy speed he’d have denied any plant could be capable of if he hadn’t seen it happening, the points start pushing through the soggy ground. As they sprout they even start to turn inward, with the blind, searching determination of sunflowers.

His brain screams _How are they doing that, how do they know?_ but the mind filled with the desperate craving for survival knows that right now, _hows_ are irrelevant. These may be ‘leaves’, externally at any rate, but there’s something far more complex in their makeup than anything found on Earth, and effectively the whole damned swamp is an organism all by itself, all the varieties of plant life in it subsumed into the service of the tube-plant, the ‘host’ he heard T’Pol mention to Crewman Doyle back on the ship. When one feeds, all feed – the ultimate symbiosis turned murderer.

More than anything else, now, he needs a weapon. T’Pol presumably still has her secateurs in one of her jacket pockets, but he certainly hasn’t got the time, the energy or the strength to go groping around inside her waders to find them, and as for being able to wield them if he found them, right now it’s as much as he can do to hang on and keep her still. He’s managed to fight her into a gasping pause for breath which he probably needs a lot more than she does, but she’s not beaten, she’s simply gathering her strength for the next bout; the instant she feels his grip loosen she’ll try to heave him off her and the fight will be on again.

T’Pol suddenly gives a huge indrawn breath, like a swimmer breaking the surface. He hears it not just because he’s wrapped around her like ivy around a gatepost, but because suddenly the reeds all around them have stopped rustling: there’s a feeling of tiptoe expectancy that would have lifted the hairs on the back of his neck if they hadn’t been coated in mud. Almost in the same moment she grabs his arm, not with the previous undirected violence but like someone waking from a nightmare and grasping for safety. 

He can’t stop to argue or explain. He plunges his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out his knife, which by some kindly miracle is still in there. A machete would have been nice, but it’s a bit difficult to carry one around in your pocket without anyone noticing, and in the meantime anything that has a blade is fine with him.

A thumb snaps open the sheath, and next moment he’s jabbing the wicked little weapon at the stem of the nearest angling spear-head – at a guess there’s little or no point in trying to attack the head itself. But though it flinches away, there are others snaking up from the ooze and coiling across from the pools, more and more of them, and T’Pol’s sudden stifled cry of pain and attempt to push herself up from the ground tell him the enemy has burrowed up underneath them. He shifts his weight off her and sees she’s now awake and aware, and frantic to escape, but although she tries to get up and he tries to pull her, it’s clear something’s anchoring her down and her body quakes as there’s another impact on her back. 

He grabs her by the shoulder and tries to haul her over, and so sees what’s happening. A spike has punched itself against the muscles under her arm and opened blade-like leaves on impact like the barbs in a whaling harpoon. The point doesn’t go deep – flesh is far harder to penetrate than mud – but the opened leaves have long, hard spines and each spine has shot into the skin and drawn blood. They must be barbed, because every movement tears the holes wider.

There are others, but though most of them have splayed harmlessly against her waders, two have hit flesh and grabbed on, and a third strikes even as he watches.

“Get away, Lieutenant! Leave me! _That’s an order!_ ” The words are broken in half by another impact, but she gets them said, and means them.

 _‘Stuff your orders, T’Pol!’_ He slices the blade and the nearest obscene cluster of leaves collapses, bereft of its lifeline, which coils furiously in the mud. He stops another in mid-lunge, but there are more thrusting up to attack.

Being able to go on the offensive at last clears some of the shrieking horror from his mind. He fights harder than he’d ever have believed he _could_ fight, swinging around to slash at attacks creeping in from the side and then stooping again to get her upper back, shoulders and arms free while he still has enough strength to help her. If only he can get her free and upright there’s a chance, they can’t get through her waders – dear God in heaven, where the bloody hell is _Enterprise_?

Detaching herself by some stupendous effort of will from the pain she must be in, T’Pol has pulled out her secateurs and is trying to help herself, managing to slice off a malevolent tendril that slides up in search of her face and its soft, easily penetrable eyes and mouth. But by now she can hardly move, and the mud underneath her is green and sticky.

The first impact on his own back as he crouches over her feels like someone’s stuck a knife of their own in it. Waders may be proof against the spear-points, but a sodden T-shirt definitely isn’t, and these things can rear like snakes. As for his legs, which are the next targets, denim obviously doesn’t present enough of a barrier either. Four hit him at once, and the knee he’s got his weight on suddenly feels as if he’s pressing it on broken glass, so there’s a fifth on there as well.

Logic says he has to save himself if he’s to stand any chance of saving her. But though he slashes through the stems of the ones that have attached themselves to his legs, he can’t get at the one on his back, and then one shoots out from underneath T’Pol like a striking snake and attaches itself to his belly.

The sheer horror of _seeing_ it there in all its loathsome hunger, its green claws already gleaming with his blood, almost robs him of reason for a split second. Fortunately old habit takes over, and this little bastard too is decapitated.

He tries. They both try. But it’s a losing battle. Dozens are coming for them now, rearing out of the pool, writhing hungrily through the churned ooze all around. The mud underneath him is already slick with his blood as well as hers and he’s losing more of it every time his defenceless back takes another hit. More fasten themselves onto the front of his body as well, and his fingers are so weak by now he can hardly hold the knife to hack at them. When T’Pol spares an instant to glance at his face, probably trying to think of something encouraging to say if another order to escape would now be wasted breath, he sees she already knows he’s a dead man.

“Thank you for trying, Lieutenant.” It’s barely more than a whisper through gritted teeth. Under the mud, her face registers the pain of strike after strike.

_I can’t let this happen– I won’t–_

Fire. Fire pouring from the heavens, like the wrath of God falling on this hell in paradise. Fire from under the nose of the shuttlepod swooping low over the clearing, burning a swathe through the frantically rippling reeds – maybe it’s just his imagination that they scream, or maybe it’s the hot wind scorching their surfaces. The spears shoot back into their holes like the burrowing eels Trip described seeing on the ocean floor when he was diving in Egypt, there one moment and gone the next; those that have writhed out of the pools coil themselves up in an instant and withdraw, vanishing into the depths. The ones that had managed to fasten themselves into flesh simply tear themselves free as they go, with a wash of atrocious pain as testament to the damage from the barbs pulling backwards.

Whoever was at the weapons console in the shuttle was careful not to direct the plasma cannon too close to the island in the middle, but swamps release methane, and pockets of gas ignite explosively, especially in a chain where the visitors churned up the mud and released more of it. Malcolm drops over his companion again, this time to protect her from the blast after blast of hot air, though it’s hardly even deliberate – he can hardly hold himself up, can barely think with the pain he’s in.

“They’ve come for us, Sub-Commander, we’ll be OK now,” he mutters. “Just hold on and we’ll get you out of here... and Doctor Phlox’ll patch you up, you’ll be as right as rain...”

The brown gaze is blurred, her lids drooping. The sight rouses him to one last flare of wild fury; he won’t let it all be for nothing, he won’t!

“Don’t you bloody _dare_ go asleep on me!” He pushes his face against hers and screams into it. “Don’t you fucking even–

_strangeness, tingling, the world dissolving and remaking itself_

–think about it, you, you...”

“I think you can leave things to us now, Lieutenant.” Brilliant blue eyes in an inhuman face, kindly and grave, already studying the readouts on the scanner he holds.

They’re lifting him gently off her and the world is no longer green and sticky and hot and red, it’s cool and grey and lit by artificial lights, but he’s so overwrought that it’s a moment before he realises the arms that hold him are those of his colleagues aboard _Enterprise_ ; and when he does he collapses in their grip like a marionette whose strings have been cut, and the world goes black.


	8. Chapter 8

Sickbay.

_Again._

Phlox, beside his workbench and just laying down a hypospray, presumably one he’s just used, and entering some notes on a PADD.

An IV tube in place (well, it’s not as if Malcolm hasn’t seen one before).

Bandages. Lots of them. So many, in fact, that he could audition for a place in one of Trip’s ghastly ‘The Mummy’ films and earn bonus points for turning up in costume.

Presumably he got from A (the transporter pad) to B (Sickbay) somehow. As he can’t remember anything about it, he suspects somebody had a hypospray handy and didn’t ask permission first. From what he _can_ remember about what happened beforehand, this was probably an Extremely Good Thing.

Phlox, noticing he’s awake and being cheerful about it, though there’s an oddly watchful look in the eerily blue eyes, which seem to be glancing in the patient’s direction rather oftener than on previous visits.

Sub-Commander T’Pol has been treated and is recuperating in her quarters. Dull medical details follow about copper blood clotting speed and relatively few damage sites (though the number of bacteria in a human bite wound is _deplorable_ , no doubt there was an excellent reason for it), plus sprightly but entirely unnecessary observations about the benefits of wearing waders that unfriendly alien flora can’t bite through.

Suppression of self responding that if he’d only _known_ he was going to go swamp-yomping and meet a man-eating monster he’d have brought along a second pair, but as it was...

Phlox, summoning the captain, who wants to know when the patient’s awake.

Self spending the intervening few minutes having mortifying flashbacks of having called his senior officer a daft haddock shortly after socking her in the jaw, neither of which constitutes conduct becoming an officer; and oh yes, wasn’t there something about doing his damnedest to chew through her trapezius muscle?

Efforts to crawl down under the sheet by the time the captain arrives and pretend he’s actually not there result in finding that he indubitably _is_ there, which is proved by the fact that most of him hurts, and on the whole lying still is a much better idea. Besides which, there’s a certain amount of suspicion that even if he managed it, the captain probably wouldn’t believe it anyway and that could end up being extremely embarrassing if he pulled the sheet off to check.

“You may still have a few problems, mostly thanks to this, Lieutenant,” Phlox tells him now, starting to unwind the bandages wrapping his left hand. “Whatever plant those thorns belonged to contained a _particularly_ unpleasant toxin. I’ve had to synthesize an antidote. It’s been effective enough so far, but I’ll have to keep a very close eye on you. I couldn’t run absolutely all the tests I would have wanted, or you probably wouldn’t still have an arm attached.” 

Oh, fucking fan-dabby-dozy. That’s _all_ he wanted to hear. No wonder he feels like he’s been popping funny pills and washing them down with a well-filled tumbler of something 40% proof. Perhaps he could claim it acted retrospectively?

...Nah. “Good idea, but they wouln’ believe it,” he slurs, and realises with horror he’s said it aloud. He doesn’t look at the hand as the doctor reveals it. He doesn’t want to think about what it could mean for him if anything happened to his hand.

It could be worse. It could be his right, his, his gun hand. But his mind’s eye replays the display at the... at the _somewhere,_ somewhere with bright lights and, and things, where two hands need to move really fast and acc– acc-u-rate-ly when bad things...

Phlox peers at the hand, manipulating the fingers very gently, and then applies a thin layer of something waiting prepared in a shallow dish before putting on fresh dressings and strapping them in place. He doesn’t make any comment, which could be good or bad, but when he’s finished he glances up at the readings on the bio-monitor above his head. “It does appear to have stimulated your pre-frontal cortex to a surprising degree,” he says, frowning. “We may have to...”

“Not a bloody bat, though, am I?” Now he’s got his hand back Malcolm tries flapping his arms like wings but stops quite quickly, a) because it hurts a _lot_ and b) because the captain just walked in. He doesn’t seem to have enough mental operating capacity left to wonder c) where being a bat came into the conversation. There’s definitely something he ought to be worried about, but he’s not sure what it is.

“Jus’ sayin’ not a blood bat, sir,” he tries, though now he’s got even more things to worry about his mouth isn’t good at translating what his brain’s feeding it, even if it had made any sense to begin with. “Fre prontal corset.”

Captain Archer and the doctor exchange glances – one puzzled, the other still frowning.

“Mister Reed appears to be having a rather complex reaction to the new medicine I’ve had to give him,” Phlox explains, his heavy brows so compressed as he looks up at the readout that they almost seem to have met in the middle and turned into an extremely hairy caterpillar – an effect that Malcolm stares up at in total fascination. “It’s working in one way, but there appear to be some unfortunate side effects. If you’ll excuse me, Captain...”

“Fucking weed,” the lieutenant announces with disastrous clarity as the doctor strides rapidly away to his workbench, leaving Captain Archer hovering rather anxiously at the bedside. This idea has floated to the top of what passes for his consciousness, though he has no idea what he’s talking about and for want of anything else to blame, points vaguely at the unoffending night-stand. “Bastard thing!”

The captain walks off to watch what Phlox is doing and they hold a low-voiced conversation, but Malcolm’s attention’s wandered by that time. It comes back just in time to find him pointing an accusing finger at the captain – now back beside the bed – and telling him he’d _told_ him so, though exactly _what_ he’d told him never really gets established.

“’Tisn’ as if she din’ waders on,” he continues, in the voice of one with a severe grievance against fate in general.

“It was exceptionally fortunate that she did, Mister Reed,” the doctor informs him, preparing something on the workbench and still turning round every couple of minutes to keep an eye on those readouts.

“And those ... those ‘tube things’. I mean, who said them anyway? What the _fuck?_ ”

More glances between the captain and Phlox.

“This should make you feel much better,” the Denobulan says soothingly. “It’ll be ready in just a couple of moments.”

The captain says something about ‘soon’ might be a good idea.

“Not even bloo’y glass!” Malcolm glares at both of them as though blaming them personally. “I mean! You tell me!”

Up till now it’s felt as though underneath the annoyance is this weird undercurrent of funnyness. If that’s a word, which it probably isn’t, but ought to be. But as the steadily worsening chaos in his head starts to mount even further he’s not sure whether they’re separate any more, and if that’s not bad enough _he’s_ separating too, which is bloody terrifying because he’s not at all sure where the halves of him are going.

All of a sudden he’s trying to get out of bed, because there are tubes attached to him and he has to escape, and people are holding him down, stopping him from tearing at the claws digging into his flesh, letting the blood run out of him and soak into the mud where the hungry roots are waiting...

He’s so desperate it’s all they can do to hold him still, and their voices batter against his ears and mean absolutely nothing. He wants to escape, he wants to live, and he can smell the rottenness of the swamp and hear the reeds whispering _doomed, damned, drowning..._

There’s a sudden hiss just under his ear and his own scream is the last thing he hears. 


	9. Chapter 9

“According to all the information I have, his system has returned to normal.” Phlox speaks somberly. “The lesions on his body are healing and I’ve already started dermal regeneration on the worst of them. More importantly, the tissues in his hand are starting to mend from the poison damage – in that respect, the new treatment worked excellently. I won’t conceal from you, Captain, the toxin was so aggressive that if I’d taken his arm off I’m not sure even that would have saved him. But I can only speculate that somehow the chemicals reacted with an imbalance in his mental state and aggravated it. 

“The countermeasure worked. From a physical standpoint, his brain is back to normal. Unfortunately…” 

Captain Archer looks across Sickbay at the prone figure on the bio-bed. The lieutenant is awake, or at least his brainwaves say he is. All the signs suggest he can hear when someone speaks to him, though he never reacts or answers.

He’s even mobile. With a little help, he can get to the bathroom, though he has to be told to go; he can’t communicate when he needs to. If someone feeds him, he eats and drinks obediently. But he never speaks. If you put yourself directly in his line of sight he stares at you with a slightly puzzled, worried look as though trying to figure out who you are and what you want, but when you step aside his gaze doesn’t follow you; he just goes back to staring straight ahead, still trying to puzzle out whatever happens to be in view at the time.

Phlox sighs, not for the first time. The captain isn’t used to seeing the irrepressibly cheerful Denobulan look so down. “I can’t help feeling responsible. If only I’d done those additional tests…”

“You didn’t have time.” Archer has read the report, and chides him gently. “You gave it your best shot. It’s only thanks to you he’s still alive.

“And T’Pol hasn’t had anything of the same reaction? Nothing at all?”

The Denobulan shakes his head. “Fortunately for her, she had no contact with the thorns – though even so, it’s not certain the poison would have affected her quite so badly. She was in nothing like as poor a condition as he was when they were rescued, and copper-based blood coagulates more rapidly. In addition to the blood loss, however, Mister Reed was suffering acute mental trauma – far more severe than I’d normally expect to see even in such appalling circumstances as these seem to have been.” He glances at the captain. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d imagine it possibly triggered a very profound subconscious terror – something like an agoraphobic waking up in a coffin. But there is nothing listed in his records to suggest that.” 

The door opens at that moment, and Trip walks in. Every evening, when he’s showered and eaten, he comes in and sits with Malcolm for an hour, talking to him like they’re having an ordinary conversation. Depending on their shift patterns, Ensigns Gomez and Muller do the same, as does Ensign Tanner who seems to blame himself somehow for being in charge of security for the landing party when something went so catastrophically wrong – though all the reports state he acted promptly, properly and decisively in commandeering the shuttlepod and sending Malcolm’s deputy and best shot Em Gomez in on the attack while he himself recalled all the other exploring parties for an immediate evacuation. They all persevere, even though Jon’s tried it himself and knows first-hand how wearisome and frustrating it is to talk to someone who just stares at you like you’re a complete stranger talking a foreign language.

“No change?” Trip’s past the point of hoping for it now, it’s just part of the routine, and he hardly waits for the sad shake of the head before heading for the chair at the bedside and his turn to intercept the anxious, bewildered stare and try to console himself that anything he says might actually be getting through.

“To be honest, Captain, I think we’ve reached the end of our alternatives,” Phlox continues in a lower voice. “If we could arrange transfer for him back to Earth, there are centers where they specialize in treating trauma patients. They may be able to find out what the root of the problem is – and once they find that out, there may be treatment options available.”

For by no means the first time, the captain wonders if he himself already has more than an inkling of what the root of the problem might be. As soon as he’d found out that the luckless armory officer had been attacked in a swamp – though why or how the hell he’d gotten himself into one at all was at first the biggest part of the mystery – Jon had realized that regardless of whatever else had happened, Malcolm was already under enormous mental pressure before it started. The Brit’s insane courage in racing in to the rescue was no surprise, but apparently not even Phlox is aware of Malcolm’s phobia of drowning.

That information was private, volunteered at a time when the guy was half out of his head with painkillers and expecting to die. It’s certainly not something he’d want made public knowledge, but the doctor’s mention of that ‘very profound subconscious terror’ plucks a guilty chord in the captain’s mind. To be sure, Malcolm’s phobia isn’t ‘subconscious’, but it probably runs extremely deep. There’s a human responsibility to respect a subordinate’s confidentiality, but it doesn’t override a captain’s duty to the welfare of his ship. Reed has been a sterling Armory Officer, fully justifying the choice of him to occupy that position. If revealing something that makes him a little uncomfortable possibly enables the doctor to salvage not just his career but perhaps even his sanity, Jon’s prepared to make that revelation and live with whatever consequences there may be afterwards.

Still, revealing it in confidence to a medical practitioner who is bound himself – even more stringently than a ship’s captain – by the laws of patient confidentiality doesn’t mean letting even a good friend overhear too. So despite the fact that Trip seems to be comfortably enough launched on a description of some new design ideas to streamline the placement of the warp coils (for what good that’ll do, presumably only the people at R&D have any idea), Jon quietly pulls Phlox over to a corner where they could conceivably be inspecting something resembling a large purple stick-insect sitting in a tank and regarding them solemnly with any or all of several sets of eyes on its head. And there, in as few sentences as possible, he explains what he’d learned during those tense, terrifying moments out there on the hull of his ship while he followed his armory officer’s instructions on how to disarm the Romulan mine that had attached itself to _Enterprise_ and could do such immense damage if it detonated.

“ _Aquaphobia?_ ” Phlox is incredulous, though he keeps his voice down. “But he must have passed Starfleet’s swimming tests…?”

The captain nods. He’s already checked up on that, and the footage is in the records at HQ as it is for all candidates. It had been weird seeing Malcolm as he’d been all those years ago, a coltish young ensign, but there was no doubting it was he.

“Did Sub-Commander T’Pol have any idea of this?” is the doctor’s next demand, and his tone’s already gathering indignation. It’s clear what his train of thought is: an officer with a deep-seated terror of water was sent to work in a _marsh?_

“Nobody knew except me,” replies Jon steadily. “It was a last-minute change of plan that he went, and from what I can find out, even he didn’t know where they were going until they were half way there. I guess by then he didn’t feel he could object. He most likely just went along with it and hoped for the best.”

Phlox’s snort in response to that idea is so emphatic that the purple stick insect immediately shuts four of its eyes and opens them again only warily.

“Well, it confirms my theory anyway,” he mutters, glancing around to the unresponsive officer staring at his friend with the same unwavering incomprehension. “The question now is, how do we deal with it?”


	10. Chapter 10

The sound of the door chime takes T’Pol by surprise.

She is about to begin her meditation, and is therefore not expecting any visitors. Still, if someone has come to see her at this hour it must be important, and her meditation will wait if it must.

She is even more surprised to see Commander Tucker waiting when she opens the door, but not as displeased as she would have expected. This is illogical, and she will have to look into it. But not immediately.

“Sub-Commander, can I have a word with you please?”

“Certainly.” She feels that sitting on a cushion would be insufficiently formal, and so invites him to take a chair. There is one beside her desk, and she seats herself on the bed opposite and prepares to pay attention.

He looks tired. No – she corrects herself, surprised by the concern the thought arouses in her – he looks _exhausted_. She wonders if he is having trouble sleeping.

He asks if she is feeling well. She answers in the affirmative. (Phlox’s treatments were effective, and though her shoulder is still intermittently uncomfortable, it is nothing that an analgesic will not cure; as deep and painful as the bite was, she bears the lieutenant no ill will for inflicting it on her, since it was clearly his only method of restraining her.)

“Good. That’s good.” His tone is sincere, but vaguely distracted.

“You wished to discuss something with me?”

“Yeah. Kinda.” He rubs a hand wearily across his face. “It’s about Malcolm.”

“I believe his condition has not improved significantly.”

“That’s one way of puttin’ it.” He drops the hand and stares at her. “Can we talk about what happened down there?”

“I have already put in a full report,” she points out. “I am sure the captain will agree to your reading it if you believe that would be helpful in any way.”

“He already did. I’m Malcolm’s direct superior officer. But I can’t get away from the feelin’ there’s something we’re missin’ here. Something real _important_.”

It is impossible for her to either confirm or deny this, so she says nothing for a moment. Then, “What makes you think so?”

“What _makes me think so_ is that he’s a tough little sonofabitch who’s used to bad things happenin’. He doesn’t freak out over stuff, not as long as he can feel he’s got options. But this time, he’s … he’s just actin’ like he’s … like he’s in someplace he can’t move out of.” 

She considers this.

It is not an inaccurate parallel for their experience down on the planet, long left behind. Although the unexpected end to their expedition meant that no samples at all from the marsh could be salvaged (unfortunately Ensign Gomez’s enthusiasm with the plasma cannon meant that those left at the water’s edge had also been destroyed, along with the sample bag still left there), the camera and scanner were still in T’Pol’s pockets when she and Reed were transported back to the ship. The evidence from these, in conjunction with the verbal account of the episode, has provided material for intense speculation among the exobotanists. Although naturally distressed by the fate of those who did go, they are understandably relieved that events had prevented either of the original volunteers from going. There can be small doubt that if they had done so, neither of them would have lived to tell the tale.

She herself can remember less than she would have liked about what had happened down there. Up to a point, her recollection is perfectly in order. Then…

For a Vulcan, even more than for a Human, the realization that one’s mental function has become impaired is intensely disturbing. There are times (such as during _Pon Farr_ ) when it simply has to be accepted, but that occasion is based on Vulcan physiology and therefore, as such, predictable and logical. It can be dealt with. 

She had felt a degree of satisfaction at being better able than the Humans around her to withstand the hallucinogenic effects of the pollen on the planet where the ship first made landfall. This was not on a personal level (which would have been illogical) but merely because it demonstrated that Vulcan minds were stronger and more disciplined than Humans’. Now, however, the evidence indicates that she had been overcome by whatever had drawn her into the trap, while the supposedly inferior Human had remained unaffected.

A considerable amount of meditation has not succeeded in reducing her perturbation at this state of affairs. As her memory was so severely affected, her report was – by her usual standards – extremely inadequate. She has read and re-read it a considerable number of times, trying to construct any more details that might allow her to understand what happened. 

Rescue had to be delayed because her and the lieutenant’s biosigns had become so contaminated by unknown plant matter that effectively separating them via the transporter beam would have been highly dangerous and bringing an aggressive alien life form on board could have risked the ship. Though _Enterprise_ had been close enough in orbit to swoop in low to assess the situation with her dorsal cameras, the situation was deemed too dangerous to use her weapons at that distance. The shuttle had to be diverted to attack the creature that the exobiologists have now dubbed ‘the Siren’ in reference to an ancient Earth legend of mythical beings whose song lured sailors to shipwreck and death. 

She may secretly rather deplore the allusion, but it is accurate enough. Certainly she has had to accept that on this occasion the roles of rescuer and rescued were reversed, even though the actual rescue was in fact accomplished by _Enterprise_ ’s transporter when the attack by the shuttlepod forced the Siren to release its intended victims, but the reversal has piqued not her vanity but her scientific curiosity. So far, the scanner records that were retrieved have yielded results that suggest that the ‘seed pod’ actually functioned as some kind of receptor for her voice, allowing the plant to manufacture sounds that would directly influence her brain in a way she would find impossible to ignore, but this can be no more than conjecture, though it fits the available evidence and would explain what happened. She would prefer to be sure but it appears that may never be possible. Even if the Siren survived the attack from the shuttlepod’s plasma cannon, the captain will certainly never give permission for any future visits, regardless of what safety precautions might be employed.

The commander has waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts.

“I have provided all the material I can on the subject,” she says slowly, at last. “My memory of much of what happened is incomplete. I am not even sure that what I _can_ remember is accurate. I am unsure in what other way I can be of assistance.”

“Have you been down to Sickbay to see him?”

“There seemed no benefit to him in my doing so.” This is the truth. Nevertheless, she is uncomfortably aware that it is not altogether the whole truth.

Physiologically speaking, the iris of the eye cannot change color. In spite of this she receives the odd impression that his very blue eyes become fractionally darker.

“’Far as I can get it, he did his damnedest to save your life down there. Wouldn’t even quit and run when you ordered him to.”

“It would have been illogical for both of us to die if one of us could escape. Nevertheless, I appreciate that his insubordination demonstrated great courage.”

“So have you told him that?”

“According to Doctor Phlox, he is in a catatonic state,” she replies with perfect reasonableness. “I have never doubted the lieutenant’s bravery, and in actual fact the captain is considering recommending him for a commendation. If he was conscious and responsive, naturally Captain Archer would have informed him of this. He may even have done so anyway, simply hoping to elicit some kind of response.”

The commander rubs his forehead, possibly an indicator of frustration. “That’s not what I asked, T’Pol.”

“If you are asking whether I have gone down to Sickbay to hold a one-sided conversation with a patient incapable of participating, no, I have not. It does not seem an appropriate use of my time and I doubt whether Doctor Phlox would feel it likely to have any beneficial effect on Mister Reed.”

“No, I think you’re wrong there.” He leans forward. “Phlox says he _can_ hear. I think maybe it … it’s just that he’s not hearing what he needs to, you know?”

She blinks. “What _does_ he need to hear?”

“Hell, I haven’t a clue!” Now the frustration is clearly palpable. “But maybe he needs to hear something from _you?_ ”

Human thought patterns sometimes escape her. The commander is an engineer whose talent is undeniable, and that field requires reasoning so structured that no Vulcan could possibly fail to understand and approve. At the same time, however, he seems capable of effortlessly pursuing the incalculably complex and often utterly mysterious threads of ‘emotional reasoning’ that seems to make up so much of Human mental composition.

She can imagine no _logical_ reason why the lieutenant should benefit from her conversation; he is unlikely to be deeply interested in the theories that she and the biology team have postulated to account for what happened. Therefore this is _emotional_ reasoning and, while it may be somewhat hard to follow, she cannot on that account simply dismiss it.

Unfortunately, as she points out, the problem would appear to hinge on exactly _what_ Lieutenant Reed needs to hear. And since even the commander’s abilities would seem to fall short of identifying that, the suggestion does not appear to advance the situation to any significant degree.

“I don’t know.” He gives a gusty sigh. “Maybe I’m just clutchin’ at straws here. But the cap’n’s talkin’ now about havin’ him taken back to Earth and put in some clinic for treatment…”

“Such places have far more expertise in treating this kind of incident than we do.” Even to a Vulcan, his pain at the thought is quite clear; she makes a conscious effort to make her tone kindly, in the effort to console him.

“Yes. They have expertise. But what they _don’t_ have is the e _xperience_ – they can’t understand what he went through. The only person who can do that is _you_.”

This is irrefutable, of course. But considering the memories she has retained are fractured and the lieutenant’s capacity for understanding anything she does try to say to him is debatable, it still does not appear to present a hopeful outlook. If anything, she continues, there is a distinct possibility that reviving memories of an experience he clearly found traumatic may make his situation worse.

“Yeah. I get that.” He pushes a hand through his hair, ruffling it; his hands are always such eloquent indicators of his mental perturbation. “But couldn’t you at least _try?_

“Look. You don’t have to talk about the … the swamp stuff straight away. Maybe not at all. Just do what the rest of us do, talk about the ship. Stuff you’d talk about in the mornin’ briefin’s. Anything. Just see if you can get him to react at all. What harm can that do?”

She hesitates for a moment. Her first instinct is to refuse; these are dangerous waters, and the lieutenant has already suffered enough damage without risking inflicting more, however benevolent the intention. But her respect for the commander’s abilities has grown over time into a real regard for the man himself, and she is reluctant to disappoint him.

“I will discuss it with Doctor Phlox,” she says finally. “If he thinks any attempt at intervention on my part worth the risk, I will try.”

His smile of relief produces a twinge of quite disproportionate pleasure.

She can only hope it will not be entirely unjustified.


	11. Chapter 11

When apprized of the plan, Phlox is at first much like she herself had been – surprised, but not wholly optimistic. It would appear he is still burdened by illogical guilt over his part in reducing his patient to the state he is in now, even though he did the best he possibly could under extreme pressure with limited time and information.

However, optimism is far more the doctor’s natural state, and he soon reverts to some approximation of it.

“I doubt if it could do any harm,” he says, mustering a smile. “If you would like to make the attempt, by all means, Sub-Commander – there appears to be a vacant spot in the visiting roster!”

The lieutenant is clearly no longer regarded as ill enough to be confined to bed. He is seated instead, in an alcove where he has a monitor screen on the table beside him and a PADD to hand if he requires one. The monitor screen shows the resting Starfleet logo and the PADD looks as though it has not been moved since it was placed there.

It would be absurd to be disconcerted by a mentally traumatized person appearing other than normal, but nevertheless T’Pol finds herself slightly disturbed by the gaze that blankly registers her arrival. Reed has not lost weight, for he eats when fed and the IV line still in place doubtless delivers the appropriate nutritional supplements, but there is an uncharacteristic slump in his posture that suggests his muscle tone has begun to deteriorate slightly. And there is something subtly horrible in the complete lack of recognition – no, more than that – the complete lack of even _acknowledgement_ in his face. His stare was unfocused, and shortened to take her in when she sat down in the chair placed at the optimum Human social angle of 45°, but that is the limit of his response. He looks at her in exactly the same way he looks at everyone else – as though mechanically obtaining visual information for a processor that has no other function whatsoever.

Phlox has tactfully retired to his desk, where he resumes dictating a letter to his friend Doctor Lucas, who has apparently recently published an article on a subject deemed contentious by the medical world. _Enterprise_ ’s Chief Medical Officer feels duty-bound to proffer his opinions, which soon become too arcane even for T’Pol to understand.

There is no-one else in Sickbay.

She and Lieutenant Reed are effectively quite alone – almost as alone as they were on that island in the marsh, when they stared death in the face.

“Lieutenant.” She almost whispers the word.

His face does not change. He does not look away from her, but he does not react in any way.

Behind him, the medical scanner indicates that his brain has received sound. It is a single blip. There is no other activity to indicate he is thinking about it. It is as though his ears are simply microphones receiving information, the soundwaves registering on a silent, inert receiver behind them.

“Lieutenant Reed.”

Nothing.

She glances at Phlox. He is apparently absorbed in his dictation, waxing indignant over some misguided interpretation of Lucas’ source material, though it is unlikely in the extreme that he has wholly abandoned either awareness of or interest in what is passing in his Sickbay.

Reed’s hands are resting in his lap, lax and motionless. Slowly, almost timidly, she reaches out and touches of one of them.

The dressings have been removed now from all but the worst lacerations, but in his forearm she can see the ring of narrow, almost pear-shaped pieces of new pink skin where the claws tore themselves out. She recognizes them because every time she looks at herself naked in the mirror she sees the same thing, but only on her upper body – most of her surface area was protected by the waders that the claws could not penetrate. He had no such protection.

He is wearing a gray tracksuit, hiding the rest of the damage. It would be an invasion of his privacy to look any further, but as she dares to venture back into … _then_ … there are images that tell her what he must look like. Images that at first came between her and sleep. Images that required hours of struggling into the proper meditation to place into their proper perspective.

Before joining Ambassador Soval’s ambassadorial team, T’Pol had worked in the service of the V’Shar. Therefore she is not unacquainted with disturbing sights. But perhaps it is her time aboard _Enterprise_ that has reduced her inability to view suffering with the appropriate dispassion.

Logically, she has no reason to blame herself for the lieutenant’s presence there in the marsh. She did not order him to accompany her – since he was off duty she would have done no such thing, though it has to be admitted that she had been appropriately grateful that someone was willing to volunteer. It was no more than coincidence that he happened to be there at the time and therefore was the one who accompanied her on the expedition in the first place.

Her Vulcan mental discipline and training enabled her to process her memory of the events of that day within an acceptable length of time. Once that was done, she returned to duty. She can state honestly and justifiably that her report on the incident was as full and accurate as she could make it and her work ever since has been up to a perfectly acceptable standard. Her computer analysis makes no allowance for extraneous factors, and the data that she studies at the end of each working day confirms that nothing whatsoever is wrong.

As she explained to Commander Tucker, there was no point at all in visiting Sickbay once she had been discharged. The fact that prior to that discharge she had not once looked sideways at the man in the bed beside hers had been merely her way of politely preserving his privacy; for most of the time, to begin with, the curtains had been drawn anyway. After that, she simply…

…had not.

From the security recordings she has taken the precaution of viewing beforehand, there had been a brief period when Reed regained consciousness, if not precisely coherence, shortly after the new compound was introduced into his body to combat the deadly effects of the toxin from the thorns in his hand. But though his already poor mental state had deteriorated rapidly and he had become violently unstable – so much so that the doctor had been obliged to sedate him – the few words he had uttered suggested he did retain memories of what had happened down on the planet. Phlox is still unsure whether this actually had any bearing on the catastrophic change in his mental state or whether it was simply a coincidence. 

Were the memories the _real_ problem, somehow given devastating power by the new chemicals in his bloodstream?

And if so – without her permission, a second thought sidles into her mind – is it only _his_ problem?

She casts another glance at Phlox, now busy sifting through piles of papers in search of some reference to support his latest argument.

Gently she takes the Human’s right hand in both of hers. His skin is slightly rough compared to hers, and calloused where his fingers grasp weapons, but immaculately clean.

“Malcolm,” she says, more softly still.

She cannot flatter herself there is any perceptible response. He still slouches there, carefully supported from sliding sideways because he makes no effort to hold himself up unless told to do so. His eyes still hold hers, vaguely puzzled and – no, ‘pleading’ is too strong a word; he looks just the same, merely with the suggestion of an anxious frown.

“The assertion is completely absurd!” booms Phlox. “The evidence clearly shows that in the absence of regulated stimuli…”

She rises from her chair, as silently as any ghost. He neither moves nor speaks, but as she closes in, his eyelids lower. Enough remains of his human reasoning to dislike this intrusive proximity and to do the only thing possible to protect his vulnerable eyes.

Like all Vulcans, she knows about the ancient, now forbidden, practice of mind-melding. She has no intention of initiating it, now or at any other time, and even were she tempted to do so it would be an act of unforgivable intrusion on a being incapable of giving or withholding consent. But still, there is contact that falls short of that, and perhaps it is not only his wordless, helpless state that needs…

… _something…_

His forehead feels warm compared to hers, though his temperature is within normal Human parameters; the average Vulcan body temperature is lower by a little under five degrees, helping the species to cope with the desert heat of their planet.

Not even his breathing changes. But nevertheless, she knows that he is aware of her – specifically aware, as he has not been of anyone else.

Her voice hardly above a breath, she begins to talk. She describes the marsh. The bright blue sky, the rippling, feathery reeds.

As she speaks, images form. She had not consciously remembered them. If anyone had read her report, there would be no mention of the sour smell of rotting vegetation, or the secretive darkness of the pools peeping between the rustling stalks all around. Or – it comes back to her with an uncontrollable shudder – the voice she heard; surely it was a voice, but whose? An almost inexpressible terror: _T’Pol, help me…_

His eyes have opened. At some infinitely deep level she can feel him reaching out, trying to touch, to make contact through a part of the experience they shared intimately:

_We **must** save!_

–There: just – _there:_ fainter than the by-brush of a moth’s wing, the concept of – _her_ – in danger; or was it _him_? At this depth there are no genders or identities, there are only glissades and crevasses of emotion, shorn of thought. To a Vulcan mind it is terrifying, but she has resisted this rather than accepting it and dealing with it; she has shut it out. The penalty now is that it is stronger than ever, and in time it might well have destroyed her. It still might, here and now, if she cannot reach the safety she has gambled is here.

 _‘Help me!’_ More than her body aches with the remembered torture of struggling; struggling with the mud, struggling with the arms that imprisoned her. This, too, she had shut out, appalled by the filth and madness and blind savagery. Her report had primly stated ‘after a short struggle’, and that had been neat and comfortable – and bearable.

His loose garment hides more than fading claw marks. At a guess it hides support bandaging too. Vulcan bone density is greater than Human, and she had felt his ribs give way under more than one of the blows she landed on him, and been glad of it.

Their positioning is inadequate. Slowly and carefully she helps him to stand and guides him to lie down on the bio-bed, resting on his side, and then lies on it herself, facing him. 

Up till this point, Phlox has allowed events to take their course. This, however, is beyond anything he clearly either expected or sanctioned. Though her claim of having been relatively unaffected by the episode rang plausibly enough to convince the captain, she suspected at the time that the doctor was not entirely satisfied; now he has abandoned all pretense of dictating, and though he asks no questions he has come closer and is clearly ready to intervene at once if he deems it necessary. One patient is clearly deeply traumatized already, and a second – possibly just as traumatized but far better at concealing it – is carrying out some kind of ‘intervention’; the possibilities for a tragic outcome are endless. 

His concern is understandable. He is a caring and responsible physician. But the link between herself and Malcolm is so infinitely fragile that had it been physical she could not have breathed on it without breaking it. She dare not risk her concentration on it in order to explain something she could hardly have found words for anyway.

Only their foreheads are touching, and their slow breathing is so synchronized it would be unsurprising if their heartbeats have become so too.

Their needs are different and identical. They both need something from what happened, and only in this way will either of them find it. 

_‘Help me!’_

_…Madness and pain and terror…_

A hand – palm to palm, then fingers entwining. Which is whose is impossible to tell, even if it were relevant.

Such power in hands, real or imaginary: such a wealth of meaning.

 ** _Thank_** I **_you_** am **_forgive_** sorry **_me_** I **_hold_** am **_me_** here **_I_** reach **_am_** out **_in_** and **_pain_** touch

This ** _we_** will ** _were_** not ** _there_** destroy ** _we_** us ** _understand_** this ** _we_** will _**are**_ not _**no** t _defeat _**alone** _us

 ** _I_** I **_am_** am **_your_** so ** _friend_** alone **_if_** I **_you_** can **_need_** trust **_me_** no ** _I_** one ** _am here_**

 ** _Help_** hold ** _me_** me 

He is grasping her shoulders. For all the relative differences in their body strength, his grip is acutely painful.

His eyes are closed again, but his face is no longer indifferent; it is contorted with pain and fear. Possibly he is not even really conscious yet, but everything that has paralyzed his mind over the past days is fighting its way to the surface; and there, it can be dealt with.

 ** _Hold_** me

T’Pol’s preparatory studies of Human psychology indicated that tears are often deeply painful for some Human males, historically taught to regard them as a sign of weakness. Given what she has learned of the lieutenant’s rigidly disciplined upbringing, she can guess that he too was taught this, regardless of the potential long-term psychological damage such suppression of even acute pain can cause to members of his species. So the violence of his sudden explosion of tears is both an indication of the strength of the barrier under which they were being held down and an indicator that it is indeed a most necessary release of everything that must have been trapped and internalized in his brain, effectively paralyzing it.

Vulcans not being in general given to shedding tears, she is not altogether sure of what response is expected of her. Attendance at Commander Tucker’s ‘Movie Nights’ may have provided the suggestion that ‘cuddling’ is a usual source of comfort, but even given what has happened between herself and the lieutenant, she is reasonably sure that ‘cuddling’ would not be regarded as appropriate or comforting by either of them. Having attended to the practical aspects of the matter by reaching over to the night stand and bringing him a couple of the obligatory paper handkerchiefs for use when required, she contents herself with returning to the same position, forehead to forehead with him but now using her free hand to stroke his hair gently and repeatedly, as she would stroke an animal in pain.

Though violent, the storm is brief. It dies away into exhaustion, and thence inevitably into sleep – on the edge of which he hesitates, obstinate and awkward as to how to deal with a situation in which both of them are strangely vulnerable to each other; aware of debt.

She sets two fingers gently on his lips, preventing him from speaking. Words, now, could do more harm than good. He needs rest and she needs to meditate, and both of them will need time and space to come to terms with their changed relationship. For it has changed, irrevocably; they have _touched_. 

Maybe there will never be a time when it can be discussed, even between themselves. Maybe there will never be a time when anyone else will ever realize anything is different. Sometimes this is just the way things are, down in the deep places.

He acknowledges the rightness of the prohibition with a long, resigned blink, and next moment his eyelids are dropping with the weight of exhaustion. She rolls from the bed, and sooner than disturb him she appropriates the blanket from the bed next door and covers him with it. A small, indistinct sound might be an attempt at a mumble of thanks, but the indicators on the monitor are already displaying the change into the first stage of non-REM sleep.

Immensely weary herself, but knowing that the meditation session of which she is now more acutely in need than ever will be far more beneficial than it would have been had not Commander Tucker intervened, T’Pol pauses in front of Phlox. Although he asks no questions, his blue eyes are extremely searching; he has two patients in this room, and their welfare is equally his concern. 

“Lieutenant Reed is asleep now, Doctor,” she says politely. “I believe you will find when he wakes up that there has been a significant improvement in his condition.”

“So it would appear, Sub-Commander. It would of course be quite fascinating to know what happened, hmm? It would be invaluable for my report. But now and again these things simply need time to work themselves out, don’t you think? Time and the right opportunity. And, of course, the right person. Though I’ve always been a great believer in benefits being mutual…”

“Quite so, Doctor,” she replies, still polite but noncommittal on the likelihood of contributing anything significant to his report. Then, each understanding the other well enough, they go their separate ways.

Partway back to her cabin she wonders whether it would be kinder to advise Commander Tucker of the good news or whether he would be asleep by now – far more time has apparently passed than she would have thought. But the decision is taken out of her hands when two sets of footsteps accompanied by the soft staccato of paws on the metal flooring announce the arrival of not only Captain Archer giving his canine its nightly exercise, but the commander himself, clearly keeping him company.

“Captain, Commander – I have just come from Sickbay,” she announces, thumbing the call button for the turbo-lift as she reaches it. “There is reason to believe that Lieutenant Reed’s condition has improved significantly.”

It is then, of course, necessary to dissuade both of them from going to see for themselves. She points out that the lieutenant is asleep and that Phlox will be able to give a much more accurate report in the morning, both of which are inarguable.

“That’s great. I’ll call down and check him out first thing, then,” says the captain cheerfully. As he continues on his way, the relief he feels is visible in every step.

The commander, however, lingers for a moment or two. His initial beam of relief at the good news has taken on an edge of speculation.

“Kind of a coincidence, Malcolm suddenly takin’ a turn for the better just when you happened to be down there,” he observes. “I don’t suppose you could _possibly_ have had anything to do with it?”

The lift car arrives at that moment, and she steps into it.

“That, Commander, is for _me_ to know and _you_ to wonder.”

The doors close on his indignation, and she draws a deep, contented breath.

Sometimes, days aboard _Enterprise_ are _extraordinarily_ satisfactory.

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make me happy. Please leave one if you've enjoyed this!


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